The Visitor / Monica's Diary: Saturday, July 15 free porn video

The Visitor / Monica's Diary: Saturday, July 15 Today was the day Timothy had been waiting for all week. Ever since last Friday's meeting with Bobbye and "the friends," as Timothy called them, he has had his mind on little else. Needless to say, he woke up before the rest of us and spent the morning in nervous agitation. I told him that if he threw himself into our weekend chores, the time would pass much more quickly, and he wouldn't make himself sick with excitement. Apparently, he believed me, because he bent his back and worked harder than I had ever seen him work before. Last night, before Nathan and I fell asleep, we had talked about how to handle today. I had of course told Nathan about our visit with Bobbye and friends and that I really, really didn't want to have to go through that again so soon. I also told him that if he decided that he was the one to go, what he would see would be far worse than what he had been seeing with Timothy. "Wasn't it Rachel that told us that Timothy would be meeting people his own age going through what he was?" Nathan asked. "Yes, but three of the four were obviously adults. I fear it will be much the same tomorrow night," I said. "All the more reason to pray about this," he said. "Tell you what; I'll call Pastor Chupco and ask him to send out a prayer request for Timothy's meeting. And would you and the kids be willing to be dropped off at their house to pray with them through the entire time?" "Certainly, we will," I said, "if you feel that's necessary." Nathan wasn't much for sunrise services, midnight services, or anything else that was in the least way ceremonial. Puritan that he was, his watchwords were "in spirit and in truth." If the practice wasn't biblical, or if it required ritual of any kind, he simply avoided it. Nathan had been lying on his left side. He rolled over onto his back and turned his head to face me. "I remember hearing a missionary to India--back when foreign missionaries were permitted to live there permanently--who talked about how that periodically the Hindu priests would gather their people into one of the temples of the village where the missionaries had a work. The Hindus would spend hours, sometimes all night, praying that the object of their worship would manifest itself and take over their bodies. When this happened, and he said it did more than once, the priests would burn a special incense that produced colored smoke. After the smoke ascended, the missionaries always faced increased opposition and the new Christians intense persecution. To combat this, the missionaries would gather the congregation and pray throughout the Hindu service that the Spirit of God would restrain the principalities and powers from possessing and energizing the people in the temple. They knew that God had intervened on their behalf when they saw no smoke." I understood what Nathan was saying. Any encouragement that Timothy received kindled his enthusiasm for pursuing the goal he had set for himself. One at a time Dr. van Norfleet, then Rachel, then Kylie, then Bobbie, then the friends had led Timothy to believe that he could become the actual person of his imagination. What effect would a roomful of likeminded individuals have on him? "We will be there," I said. After lunch, Nathan took the boys into the scrub, while the rest of us proceeded to get Timothy ready for his outing. He looked excited to be going out in public, unlike the last two times when he had ventured out into the real world with all the courage of a bunny among coyotes. I said we got him ready. At first, we did little more than watch him act like he knew what he was doing. After his shower, Timothy, clad in his bathrobe and with his hair wrapped in a towel, gathered up his cosmetics and arranged them on the counter top of the bathroom sink. "You really know what to do with all that stuff?" Elizabeth asked. "Google is your friend," Timothy stated with a smile. "I thought that was just for finding directions," Sarah said. "Nope. You can learn to do anything by typing in what you want and watching a video. I've watched hours of videos over the years and was even able to practice with some of my mom's stuff," he said. Timothy seemed as happy as I had ever seen him. Since we all watched, the little girls especially, Timothy began talking as he made himself up, as if he were giving a demonstration. Sarah and Elizabeth responded to his lessons with one question after another. "What's this? What's that? What's this for? How do you put that on?" "I hope I've not opened a can of worms," I said to Hannah. "More like Pandora's Box, I'm afraid," she answered. When he was finished, about 45 minutes later, Timothy turned from the mirror to face us. Sarah and Elizabeth cocked their heads like curious kittens. They had never worn makeup and, as far as I knew, had not the first idea as to how to put it on, but even they could see that all was not as it should be. To be fair, Timothy did not look as bad as he did when we picked him and his mom up at the mall, not anywhere nearly that bad. But neither did he look like anything more than a boy who had put on makeup. Nothing matched, and nothing blended; he was a collection of contrasts. The foundation was too thick. The powder was not uniform. The blusher was too bright. The lip gloss matched nothing. The eyeshadow was almost garish. I turned to Hannah, who had been watching Timothy's activities as intently as her sisters but with a more critical eye. When he turned to face us, she studied his face and began gesturing to him to turn his head this way and that and to look up and down. "I'm seeing how the light catches your complexion in different positions she said." He did what she said and then waited expectantly. "Can we help?" Hannah asked. "Sure," Timothy said without hesitation. "I think your primary goal should be to look as least like that Merriweather person as you possibly can," Hannah said. She immediately began removing layers of everything from Timothy's face. "She just got started late is all," Timothy said, eyes closed as Hannah lightened the blusher. "That's why I want to get all of this taken care of before I become too manly." Sarah and Elizabeth giggled at the same time. They had taken their customary positions on the side of the bathtub. I was sitting between them and the bathroom sink, while Hannah was standing on the other side of Timothy. She stopped what she was doing when he said that and looked at him intently. "I don't think an over-abundance of masculinity is actually your problem, Skyla--too much makeup maybe--but not too much manhood." "No, you don't understand," Timothy replied. "There are kids in elementary school that have already transitioned. They're on hormone blockers now, and when they get to be your age, their doctors start them on estrogen. Some of them even have the affirmation surgery at eighteen and never have to experience any problems at all." "How can anyone go through life without problems?" I asked. "You know what I mean," Timothy said, "no problems passing." "Passing?" I asked. "Appearing as a woman, being accepted as a girl, you know, functioning without being questioned," Timothy explained. "Being taken for something you are not; fooling people with an external fa?ade; deceiving a man into thinking you are the opposite sex," Hannah added, brushing his eyelids with a cotton swab. When she said that, Timothy took a step back and thrust his hands up, brushing Hannah's hands away from his face. "Why do you always do that?" he shouted. "You know how much this means to me, and you always ruin it. You all say you love me. Why can't we just be friends." "We've been more than friends to you, Skyla," I said. "And we do love you; surely you can see that." "If you were my friends, you would believe in me. You'd believe me when I say that inside I'm a girl just like you, just like all of you." "We do believe in you, Skyla," I said, trying to soften my tone of voice. "Everyone of us in this room believes that in your heart of hearts you feel you are a girl, but you have to understand that we are not living in the same world you are." "You got that right." His tone was bitter. "I'm not talking about our chosen lifestyle," I said. "It doesn't matter to any of us if you live in a cabin or a high rise, whether you're connected to the super highway or Old Muddy. What I mean is that your imagination is your world. To someone in a dream, everything that happens makes perfect sense at the time. "You're fifteen years old and standing on the surface of the planet Mars? Of course it makes perfect sense, because you have some kind of memory of being raised by astronauts to be an astronaut, and the more you think about it, the more you remember the rocket flight that got you there. In the next instant your floating down the Mississippi River eating a ham sandwich and talking to Thomas Jefferson--and that makes perfect sense too! It's not until the dream becomes a nightmare that you want out of it and back into the real world. All I am saying is we're not a part of your dream. We exist outside of your imagination. We're praying that you wake up before that dream becomes a nightmare." For a second, just a second, I could see in his eyes that he remembered his own nightmare from two nights before and how it had made him feel. But then he saw that I saw and slammed the door. "Talk, talk, talk; all you do is argue with me. You don't know what I feel like on the inside. You have no idea how much it hurts to see you, all of you, with everything." "Everything?" "Yes, everything! You all can walk and talk and gesture. You can twirl and be graceful and express your emotions. You can sing and feel and be timid or tentative, or even fearful, and nobody condemns you for it. You can be soft and beautiful, and everyone thinks it's wonderful." We all knew what was coming by this time and were not taken by surprise when Timothy once again collapsed onto the floor of the bathroom, weeping uncontrollably. We gathered round him as we always do to give him what comfort we could. "Mama," Hannah whispered over the sympathetic sounds of her sisters. "I think what God intended in us to be attractive to him has only served to make him jealous." All I could do was nod in agreement. But Timothy still had a party to get ready for, so as soon as he calmed down, we stood him up and went back to work. Since his tears had marred his initial efforts, we thought it best for him to wash his face and start over. "Did you know our word cosmetics comes from the Greek word cosmos?" Hannah asked as she applied moisturizer to the now passive Timothy, "which is the polar opposite of the Greek word chaos. Cosmos meant order and harmony. The Greeks referred to the universe as the cosmos because they perceived it to be orderly and harmonious. I think if we apply all your stuff decently and in order, you won't look like a fright." "High praise indeed," I said, making a face at Hannah that begged her not to throw more gasoline onto a fire we had just extinguished. Once Hannah had finished with him, Timothy went into his room and spent quite a while changing into the party dress we had seen him in at the mall. Had he not been attending a little convention of transgenders, he would have looked goofy. As it was, he probably would not look bad at all. Once his wig was affixed, as long as he didn't speak or move, he almost looked plausible. Hannah was right. He did not look like a fright. "Well look at you, Sky!" Nathan's voice boomed as he led the boys into the living room where Timothy was sitting. "You clean up pretty good for a catfish noodler we once found face down in the mud." We immediately looked at Timothy, each of us holding our breath that this remark would not precipitate yet another outburst of tears resulting in one more rebuilding effort. Instead, Timothy smiled and, in that instant anyway, actually looked pretty. I looked at the clock and then at my husband. "Are you going to have time for a shower and shave?" "Are you kidding?" Nathan replied. "Like I'm going to make myself look the least bit appealing to anybody where we're going!" "Hadn't thought of that," I said. "Yeah, well, while you're at it with Timothy, don't forget to pray for me. I have a feeling I'll know how Lot felt before the night is over." I smiled and then started rounding everyone up and herding them toward the Suburban. "Everybody's going?" Timothy asked. "Will we embarrass you?" I asked, "or merely cramp your style?" Timothy's mouth dropped open, and he looked confused. "Don't worry," I added. "Only Nathan is actually going with you. The rest of us will be at the pastor's house." "Doing what?" Timothy asked suspiciously. "Just exactly what you think," I said. "You're going to be praying, aren't you?" "Of course; we love you." Oddly enough, his shoulders sagged, and something of a scowl appeared on his face as he started to step into the vehicle. "No, Skyla!" Hannah said sharply. He stopped and looked at her. "You've got to stop getting into a car like you're climbing onto a tractor. You don't see us doing what you do. Put your bottom in first and then swing your legs, together, in after you." He scowled again but did as commanded. When we arrived at Pastor Chupco's house, I asked Timothy if he'd like to go in and say hello before going to his meeting. "No!" He said instantly. "It's just courtesy," I said. "And you look the best you ever have," Hannah suggested. Timothy looked at her like she was some kind of Rubik's Cube he just couldn't figure out. Then, he shuddered. "No, I just don't want to," he said. "Suit yourself, Sky," Nathan said, and then to us; "We'll be back when you see us." With that, the rest of us got out of the Suburban and went to the front door. Linda answered our knock and immediately looked around for Timothy. "No Skyla?" Her voice registered a hint of disappointment. "He was afraid," Hannah stated. "Afraid? Of whom?" Linda asked. She asked that in a tone that indicated we thought it might be of her, the meekest and gentlest person I have ever met. "Probably your husband," I said. "He's afraid of Nathan too. In fact, truth be told, I think Timothy is afraid of most men. I don't know if he's ashamed of what he is or what he isn't, but he just doesn't seem to be able to handle seeing what God intended." Pastor joined us shortly after that. We sat down to a fabulous meal that Linda had prepared for all of us. When we were finished, Pastor invited the children to make use of the volleyball net he had set up in his back yard, while the rest of us retired to the living room to pray. Hannah asked to be allowed to join us, and Pastor agreed. After we were seated, Pastor Chupco opened his Bible and read to us: For though we walk in the flesh, we do not war after the flesh: (For the weapons of our warfare are not carnal, but mighty through God to the pulling down of strong holds;) Casting down imaginations, and every high thing that exalteth itself against the knowledge of God and bringing into captivity every thought to the obedience of Christ. "We must remember," Pastor began, "that Timothy is not consciously rebelling against his biology, his parents, or even against God. The imaginary person he has created in his mind is designed to live in an imaginary world where everyone will love, respect, and even honor him as he wishes to be loved, respected, and honored." Pastor removed his glasses and polished them for a moment. "In this regard, Timothy does not differ from everybody else in the world. Everyone wants to be loved, respected, and honored. Like anyone who does not know God, he seeks these things apart from the will of God, apart from the way God ordained love, respect, and honor. We must pray that as God destroyed the tower of Babel and confounded the understanding of the builders, so He would intervene in Timothy's life, knocking down this tower of his imagination and confounding his understanding of himself as Skyla." And so we did. I think we spent at least three hours praying for him. At first, it was much like one of our regular prayer meetings. Pastor prayed out loud, while we prayed silently. Later, he invited us to pray aloud as well. Sometime during the second hour, something changed. For some reason, each of us was impressed as never before with the reality of the situation. We became burdened with an urgency that we had not felt before, like we were watching someone on death row counting down the hours; eating his last meal; walking those final steps to the execution chamber. We found ourselves weeping, pleading, and begging God to spare Timothy's life. And then it was over. The tension broke, and we stopped praying. It wasn't thirty minutes later that Nathan pulled into the driveway, and we all departed for home. I guess I expected a replay of our last trip home from Bobbye's office, when Timothy could not stop bubbling over with all that he had heard, learned, and felt. It wasn't that way this time. Timothy scarcely said a word and spent most of his time staring out the window, when he wasn't pretending to be asleep. It was later than we usually go to bed on Saturday night when we got home. Everyone had to shower and get ready for Sunday, so there was a lot of noise and commotion for well over an hour. It gave me and Nathan time to talk in the privacy of our bedroom. "What was it like?" I asked. "Much as you said it would be," Nathan replied. "I don't know that I saw anyone there younger than Timothy, and maybe only one or two kids in their teens at all." "Was it a small group?" I asked. "I don't know for sure; more than 20, maybe 30." "In that little office? Where did Bobbye put them all?" "They didn't actually meet in her office. That's where we went at first, but it was closed. They gathered in that AIDS building that adjoins her office." "How old were most of them?" "Twenties and thirties on up. I saw the one you called M. Merriweather, and he wasn't the oldest." I shook my head. "Rachel sat right there in our living room and told us this group was for ages 14-19." "Imagine that," Nathan grinned, "an agent of the government lying to us." "Perhaps she didn't know?" I suggested. "Perhaps," he agreed. "We all wore name tags, and I don't remember seeing anyone labeled Rachel." "Were they all like Timothy?" "Some definitely were. Some seemed to be there checking it all out. I met one guy, must have been in his mid-twenties, looked as normal as the day is long; he was there for that very reason. He was an engineer somewhere, made good money, but he didn't have a girlfriend, in fact had never had one. We were talking, and he told me that from what he had read and seen on the internet and TV, he was curious that being transgender might be the reason why." "Really?" "Yes. There was at least one other like him, but I don't think anything will come of it for either of them. There was another half dozen or so that seemed to have decided that transgender was the course they should take, but either lacked the money to start, or had just that day started to present as the opposite sex. They wore what looked like regular men's clothing but would have on lipstick or be carrying a purse. One was wearing a woman's wig and a man's business suit." "What was their thinking?" I asked. "I think they simply found it convenient to show up in their regular clothing and then add a prop or two for the meeting. When it was over, they wiped it off or put it away somewhere." "Did you see Bailey?" I asked. "Yeah, and Bryliance and Cassidy," he answered. "I don't know them." "They are apparently the cool kids of the group. They're both around the same age as Bailey, maybe a tad older and every bit as theatrical." "Theatrical?" "You know, exaggerated stage makeup and glitter." "Odd, I don't remember Bailey looking like that when we were at Bobbye's office, but then that was the middle of the day. Maybe they were toning everything down so as not to shock us." "Well, they didn't tone anything down tonight. The three were strutting and prancing and generally making themselves appear as sexy as was within their power to do." "To what end?" "That's what I was trying to figure out. All of the guys there were pretending in one way or another to be women. The handful of women there seemed to be pretending to be men but took no real notice of the antics of Bailey and company. They clustered to themselves and chatted like women do." "What do you mean?" "They talked about their children, the parents they were caring for, clothes, and illnesses." "Really?" "Yeah, it was crazy. In fact, it prompted me to try something." "What?" "Remember the engineer I was telling you about?" "Yes." "I went over to him and asked if he thought the Astros could keep it up." "I don't understand." "The Houston Astros are on pace to win a hundred games this year and make it into the playoffs, maybe even the Series." "Okay," I said in the tone that I use to indicate that while I have no real idea what Nathan is talking about, I would like for him to continue the story to the point he is making. "He opened right up. Said he thought this team was better than the '05 team that had made it all the way to the Series. Well that brought another guy over and another until there were half a dozen of us comparing hitters and fielding between that team and this one. I guess we got kind of loud, because Bobbye had to bang on the table to make herself heard and call the meeting to order. Of course, when she did that, they all snapped back into girl-mode and became the little misses prim and proper." "Rachel said there would be a presentation on issues of concern to transgenders," I said. "I assumed it would be either tips on how to dress or medical concerns they might have." "No. There were no fashion tips; it was more of a political speech." "Political speech?" "Yes. She read the names of several transgender people who had been murdered or had committed suicide because they were transgender. She said that this sort of thing happened every day and would never stop happening until all of the LGBTQI etc. stood together as a block and elected enough people to change the laws and the courts so that those oppressing them could be crushed." "I had no idea people like Timothy were being murdered every day or were committing suicide. You'd think we'd have heard about it." "Yes, I thought so too; that's why I asked her about it afterward. The way she explained it, people like Timothy are so desperate for validation as women that they go to extremes to get it." "Extremes?" "They try every means possible to attract the attention of men. They feel more like they are women if men take an interest in them physically. Of course, they are not exactly forthcoming with the true nature of their anatomy with the men they attract. If and when those men learn the reality of the situation, they tend to become quite angry, many to the point of physical violence, some even to the point of murder." "Does that mean the ones who cannot attract male attention and physical interest get depressed and kill themselves?" I asked. "That's what Bobbye said," Nathan replied, yawning. "Sounds like they are dying to attract men and dying when they do. That's sad," I said. "Sadder even than what I saw there, and I saw some things that were very, very sad." "Like?" "There was a couple, a tall guy, well over six feet, and his five-foot- two wife. He was pretending to be a woman, and she, a man. They brought their baby with them." "Oh no!" "And left their older children with a sitter." "That's horrible." "I got the chance to talk to both of them. Seems he had felt like Timothy does all his life but had tried to fight it. Was an athlete in high school and college, went into the service, got married, you know, the whole nine yards. He said he'd done everything he could think of up to and including fatherhood but just couldn't kill what he called 'the girl inside clawing to get out.'" "And his wife?" "She looked me straight in the eye and said that when her husband found the courage to come out, so did she." "What?" "Like I know, right. It seemed rehearsed to me too. She was a stay-at- home mom with two little ones and one on the way, when he broke the news to her. Curiously, he's still a bank executive, and she still takes care of the kids. She just calls herself a house husband now." "Those poor children." "They were the saddest case. From what you had told me about M. Merriweather, I had expected him to be the most pathetic." "You mean he wasn't?" I asked. "He was edged out by a six-four, two-hundred seventy-five-pound ex special forces operator of some kind who called himself Charlotte and wore a skin-tight mini-dress that showed every ripple and tattoo, on his massive frame." "Wow" "Remember that Rod person you were telling me about?" "Yeah, the one I thought was a real guy?" "Well 'Charlotte' made Rod look like a giggling school girl by comparison. You said Rod had an attitude, well Charlotte filled the room with the message; 'You will call me ma'am and miss and refer to me as she and her, or I guarantee you will leave here in an ambulance.'" "I assume by the integrity of all your parts that you acquiesced." "We never spoke. What little I learned of that one was gained from hushed whispers from the other guys." "From what you are telling me, it sounds like everyone there was in touch with their own feelings and egos, but no one was in touch with reality." "Actually, there was one person," Nathan said in a thoughtful tone. "There was no glitter or goofiness, just a small person who looked like somebody's mom. In fact, that's exactly what I thought--another parent like me waiting for a kid like Timothy." "But she turned out to be a he?" I asked. "Worse than that," Nathan said softly. "I don't understand," I said, after Nathan had remained silent for some time. "She turned out to be 'the man in the iron cage.'" Nathan was referring to one of the characters in The Pilgrim's Progress. After Bunyan's Pilgrim had dropped his dreadful burden at the cross, he came to the house of the Interpreter where he saw many sights and people. One of the people was a man locked in the iron cage of despair. At this point in his life, he knew the truth but found himself unable to repent and turn to God. His course was set for damnation, and all he could do was follow it to the eternal end. "How so?" I asked. "It turns out that Emily had succeeded in doing what everyone else at Living-It-Out was merely assaying to do. As a relatively young man, Emil had gone all the way and had the operation--30 years ago." "Really?" "And didn't look the least bit freaky, or even strange, just like any woman you would meet in the grocery store and never think twice about." "But she was in despair?" "Very much," Nathan said. "When I first saw her, I went over, introduced myself, and identified Timothy as being under my foster care. I then asked which of the people in the room was one of hers. She said all of them and none of them." "Odd," I said. "I thought so too," Nathan replied, "so I asked her what she meant, and she proceeded to tell me her story. It sounded much like that of Timothy, except Emil was much more successful at repressing his dysphoria. He made it through college, marriage, the Army, graduate school--all the way up to about the age of thirty--when he collapsed one day and heard himself tell his wife that he had made a mistake. He never should have married her but should have had a sex change operation instead. She divorced him of course, and then he did it." "Had the operation?" "Yes." "I didn't know they even did that operation 30 years ago," I said. "From what I learned tonight, the first American to undergo that procedure was 60 years ago, and the first one ever was back in 1930." "So, Emily is something of a pioneer." "A very unhappy pioneer." "Does she know why?" I asked. "I really think she does," Nathan said. "Emily said that growing up she had heard of Christine Jorgensen and Renee Richards and had hated herself for not having the courage to do what they had done. She said that she na?vely believed that being a woman trapped in a man's body was a real thing and that hormones and surgery would free the woman to be herself. She also thought that once she had gone all the way through the process that everyone would completely accept her for what she had become." "And they didn't?" "Actually, they sort of did at first. She worked as some kind of editor for a small literary book publisher, and everyone was eager to pull chairs out and open doors for her. They always called her Ms. and were pretty careful about practicing their pronouns." "So what was the problem?" "She said they only did it in public, when everyone was around, and people were watching each other." "Virtue signaling," I said. "That's what it's called now; Emily referred to it as 'getting their liberal card punched.'" "And in private?" I asked. "Still treated her like one of the guys. The men would talk sports, sex, and politics just like they had with Emil, and the women, the ones she encountered as individuals anyway, had little to do with her. She might, if she tried very hard, be able to engage them in a limited, work-related conversation, but discovered none of them had any interest in talking to her about things they talked about with each other. They never initiated a conversation, never invited her over for anything, and always had something else to do when she invited them." "Is that why she moved away?" I asked. "How did you know that?" "How many literary book publishers can there be in Amarillo?" "Gotcha! Yeah, she moved from place to place and job to job but never really fit in anywhere. Her secret was never discovered, but she discovered that the life she had envisioned for herself--a husband, kids somehow, the white picket fence--just wasn't happening. She could attract men sexually, but no one ever fell in love with her. She said the scary thing was that she was unable to find any man that attracted her emotionally. And she was never able to make any real friends with women." "She must have been horribly lonely," I said. "The word she used was superfluous; she said she felt like she was a superfluous person. She didn't fit anywhere." "Why doesn't she go back to being Emil?" I asked. "Why does she go to Living-It-Out?" "I asked her the same thing," Nathan replied. Then he paused for a few moments as if struggling to remember what he had been told. "She said she had thought about it, thought seriously on several occasions but just couldn't figure out how to do it." "Just change clothes," I suggested, but Nathan chuckled. "Isn't that all Timothy has done so far--change clothes--and how much of a difference has that made? Imagine if you changed clothes and tried to live as a man." "But my anatomy is..." I began and stopped. "Yes," Nathan replied. "Emily has the same anatomical appearance as you and has had it for 30 years or so." "There are women that have these surgeries," I said. "Couldn't Emily do what they do?" "Back when Emil did it, it cost less than $5,000. According to Emily, to go back would cost 30 times that amount or more, and what would it get her. She still wouldn't be right with God. She simply does not know the Lord, and for all she's been through has never once thought to seek Him." "She really is in the iron cage of despair," I said. "But what I still don't understand is why Emily comes to Living-It-Out?" Nathan picked his Bible up from the night stand on his side of the bed and flipped through it for a few seconds. "This is as close as I can come to understanding what she said." Then he began reading: Doth not wisdom cry? And understanding put forth her voice? She standeth in the top of high places, by the way in the places of the paths. She crieth at the gates, at the entry of the city, at the coming in at the doors. Unto you, O men, I call: and my voice is to the sons of man. O ye simple, understand wisdom: and, ye fools, be ye of an understanding heart. "She's trying to warn them?" I asked. "That the promise is a lie, that their dream is a nightmare waiting to happen," Nathan answered. "Do they listen?" "According to Emily, they think she's just a bitter old queen who doesn't know what she's talking about. They think she's miserable because she had her chance and didn't do it right. They see themselves as young, beautiful, and glamorous; they will do it right." "How miserable she must be," I said, then something occurred to me. "Maybe we should have Timothy talk to her." "He was right there by me. He heard her whole story." "I'd have thought he'd ditch you immediately and stay as far away as possible." "I thought the same thing. When we pulled into the parking lot, and I opened my door, his first words to me all evening were: 'You're not actually coming in are you?'" "I'll bet that hurt," I said, thankful it hadn't been me that had taken him. "If it had been a real social function and any one of the three girls, it would have killed me. As it was, Timothy sounded like what I expect Mark or Josiah to say to me one day." "How did you react?" "I just told him than none of the girls I was responsible for ever went anywhere by herself and that that included Skyla." "Really?" "Yeah, and he kind of almost smiled at that, just before he did the teenage eye-roll thing." "But you say he stayed with you?" "Well not at first," Nathan replied. "He walked in, looked around, and saw Bailey. He went over to her like a puppy to its mistress." He paused for a few seconds. "You know, the way you described it, and the way Timothy talked about it all week, I thought they were, I don't know, dangerously close." I nodded my head. "I feared that too." "Bailey looked him up and down as coldly as if he'd murdered her mother. Then she began pointing out all his flaws and mistakes to those two friends of hers who smirked and giggled." "Oh no!" I said. "Did he cry?" "No, but he looked like a puppy that had been kicked. He went over to Merriweather, who did not look at all happy to see him. I don't know much about women and even less about these people, but if I were forced to wager my paycheck, I'd say Merriweather was jealous." I laughed. "Truth be told, Timothy looked better than Merriweather at their first meeting as well." "He finally went over to Rod, who was the only one to give him any kind of welcome. Rod hugged him and then walked around him and, from the expression on Timothy's face, appeared to be giving him all manner of compliments on his getup." "I'm surprised Timothy didn't stay with Rod the whole evening," I said. "Well," Nathan said. "It was odd. They did talk for a while, but then, I don't know how many, several of those guys I was telling you about--the ones that made no effort to look like women beyond one item of makeup or clothing--they kind of closed in on him. They were a fawning, touchy-feely bunch. I could see from his red face that their pawing at him was making him nervous. That's when I went over and started talking to them myself. They faded away one by one until it was only me and Timothy. He stayed pretty close after that." "And he heard everything Emily had to say?" I asked. "All of it," Nathan said. "At the end, it looked like Emily was talking straight to Timothy and not to me." "How did he take it?" "Except for the brief episode with Rod, Timothy looked very morose." "Did he talk?" "It was just like his ride home with us. You could tell he was thinking, turning things over and over in his mind, but he never said a word to me." That's when I told Nathan how our prayer meeting had gone, the tension, and the release. "Maybe we're approaching a crisis point," he said. "Maybe God is about to intervene in Timothy's life." "Maybe we'll see something happen tomorrow?" I suggested. "Maybe."